


Road Map to the Brink

by DefineNormal



Category: The Doctor Blake Mysteries
Genre: Character Study, Gen, celebration of jean beazley, international cult of jean, jeanuary, mild mild mild lucien/jean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-02-03
Packaged: 2019-03-07 12:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13434426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefineNormal/pseuds/DefineNormal
Summary: Jeanuary Celebration - a series of 100 word drabbles, one for each episode of season 1. Possibly to be continued for other seasons, time permitting.





	1. Chapter 1

_i. Still Waters_

Her smile is easier now, genuine affection mixing with the clenching disapproval. She cannot help but compare him to the Dr Blake elder, even knowing there was nothing fair about measuring a son against a father.

He is informal and irreverent, full of ideas both good and bad, filling the house with a thrumming energy, both foreign and not unwelcome.

She has no true objection to the painting; it is quite lovely. However she recognizes that her newest task will be protecting Dr Blake the younger from his reckless need to always be right.

He grins in return.  She’s ready.

 

_ii. The Greater Good_

Jean feels redundant. In the way of the new Doctor’s encroaching progress, her strict adherence to a schedule chafing them both. He, when she pushes him to be at dinner on time. She, when he inevitably fails to show up. It would be easier on both of them if she sought employment elsewhere and gave him free reign of his own house.

She asks if he needs anything.

Her throat clenches when he says he does not.

Had she truly expected him to ask her not to go?

“I need you, Jean.”

She swallows a lump. Of course she had.

 

_iii. Death of a Traveling Salesman_

She feels fiery. The carefully crafted facade of a woman in service slips as she watches Lucien, her eyes narrowed. In the end he had asked her to stay and to box his ears when he needed it.

And now he definitely needed it.

He sidles next to her and points at the machine, stuttering useless platitudes about the ease of its use. In response she bends each knuckle until it clicks. Her eyebrow is arched when he glances in her direction. His expression shifts and he knows he’s stepped wrong but can’t figure out how.

She keeps him guessing.

 

_iv. Brotherly Love_

Mrs MacDonald. A newcomer to Ballarat, and as unseasoned and unafraid as Lucien. Jean notes in her the same casual disregard for The Way Things Are. She can admit to herself a flare of envy at the careless confidence standing, challenging, on the front doorstep.

Regardless, she’s a threat to the tentative balance they’ve struck, weighing heavily in the favor of recklessness. Jean has only just slowed Lucien’s careen into destruction and Joy watches her with a knowing eye, assuming romance rather than self-preservation.

Jean turns on her heel. It is of no consequence to her what Joy MacDonald thinks.

 

_v. Hearts & Flowers_

It is his talk of leaving, so matter-of-fact, that sets her heart to racing. What will she do, then, if he runs off to parts unknown to find his family? Can she begrudge him? Would she not flee to the ends of the earth for her own boys?

She realizes she’s been holding her breath since he’d arrived, waiting for the moment when his attention snapped to the distance and he scampered off, a dog after a scent.

She’ll be fine, she thinks. She’ll land on her feet.

She’s confident in her ability to survive.

It’s just...she’ll miss him.

 

_vi. If The Shoe Fits_

It’s not Robert’s soft eyes and gentle hands, but his intentions, that cause her to recoil. He is a new opportunity for her, a lifeline, one she is expected to be thankful for. She is a woman of a certain age, living in the home of a bachelor. Suitors are not breaking down her door.

His proposal is her ticket to respectability, to order. Never mind she doesn’t love him.

Anger and mortification burn low in her belly and she stokes them with sherry, feeding the hurt.

Her refusal has nothing to do with laughing blue eyes.

Nothing at all.

 

_vii. Bedlam_

It’s the little girl that breaks her. Sometimes it is easier to believe that Lucien’s faults are simply the result of self-absorption and self-pity. That he nurses petty hurts to give himself an excuse to indulge. It was easier to see him as spoiled, once.

Now, she sees only the wounds. Not gaping hurts, easy to identify, but small ones that are well hidden. He is a sleepy child beneath the afghan of his bed, his jaw slung open, snoring softly.

He is a man with aches many and varied, and a broken gaze that stirs something in her heart.

 

_viii. Game of Champions_

It is intoxicating, the quick exchange of ideas. Lucien, the ringmaster, presenting tangled plots to unravel, scenarios to solve.

It’s a real life puzzle, bits snapping together at the oddest moments. He appreciates their input, encourages them to stretch, believes no answer too outrageous. She finds herself living for the moment when he snaps and points to her, uncovering the correct answer in the wisdom she shares.

Then his face shifts again, thoughtful, and he quickly stalks away.

“Thank you, Jean.” Drifts behind him as he disappears down the hall.

Jean swallows a satisfied smile, entirely too proud of herself.

 

_ix. All That Glitters_

She treats him like a child. Sometimes, he needs it. Her silence draws him closer, to the visitor chair beside her. Her sons couldn’t stand her silent interrogations either, and an apology finds its way to the surface.

She is pleased to hear he is contrite and she believes it is genuine.

It’s the acknowledgement of loss that lumps in her throat, her husband’s name catching there even as she inhales Lucien’s cologne.

They are defined by their losses, widow and widower, the empty chair between them full of ghosts.

She wishes it was different. She fears it will change.

 

_x. Someone’s Son, Someone’s Daughter_

It happens again. Angry words, accusations, hurt filling her throat like dark water.

The pressure in her chest drives her away.

She returns to a letter, written with much affection.

He’s another to add to her collection. Another man driven across an ocean to fight his demons with only her anger to carry him through.

No time for amends, there is only hope that their last words will not be those spoken in anguish.

The house echoes in his absence and she offers a missive to God to keep him safe and bring him home.

A beginning, not an ending.  



	2. Series 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Series 2

_i. The Heart of the Matter_

It’s a different unrest that crawls in her stomach at the sight of Joy MacDonald. A visceral, unwelcome, territorial growl rolls deep. _He’s just come home_ , she wants to shout. _You’ll not take him away_.

Not before she’d checked him over, inspected him, assured herself he was in one piece. She wants to press her palm to his forehead, curl her fingers over his pulse, inspect his soul for new injuries and his heart for fresh bruises.

She settles for watching him in the lights of passing street lamps and resists the urge to cup his stubbled cheek.

Just barely.

* * *

 

_ii. The Food of Love_

There is nothing thrilling in the way Lucien taunts a suspected murderer.

Nothing compelling in the way he throws back his shoulders and steps forward, his frigid eyes dancing with dark merriment.

There is nothing that stirs her when he speaks calmly, juts his chin obstinately and steps closer.

There is so much nothing that, of course, Jean must look away. She swallows a flush and clutches her purse.

When it’s over, they head to the door and she cannot help but smooth his tie. His eyes twinkle and hers roll in response. He’s an idiot, but he’s her idiot.

* * *

_iii. A Foreign Field_

“We never had a funeral for Christopher.”

She has no idea why she says it, why the words tumble so easily, the sting of emotion not far behind. She feels the tears in her throat, knows he hears them in her voice.

It’s a confession of sorts, the unburdening of her heart to someone she has come to trust will protect her. One day she will ask him - she will ask him to tell her how it was for him. How it might have been for Christopher.

And maybe, by then, she will be able to tell him the rest.

* * *

_iv. Smoke and Mirrors_

Jean grew older with the notion that she should do well, be a help, and serve God and man. She had no right to expect more, she believed, having lost so much already.

Happiness was not always the perfect ending. Perhaps it was quiet laughter after a long day, the steady click of knitting needles. It could be a shared drink, a meandering chat, and the company of good friends.

Happiness was Mattie, brow furrowed in irritation, jabbing at yarn. Not quite daughter, but more than just friend.

Happiness was Lucien…

Lucien.

Well. She wouldn’t think of that. Not yet.

* * *

_v. Crossing The Line_

_Are you fond of him?_

Irritation pours down her spine like hot water and she stills, the twitch of her eyes the only sign she’s heard him.

The anger is quick and sure and hot, even as she prevaricates. What is she supposed to say?

No, Lucien, I am not fond of him. No, Lucien, I won’t be seeing him again.

Why not? _Why not?_

Because Lucien, you are the man against which all men are now measured.

She thinks of saying it, of shocking him into silence just once.

She will, too, one day. Just to see him gape.

* * *

_vi. Mortal Coil_

The whiskey still burns down the back of her throat as she allows her eyes to roam over his face. He is still somewhat pale, but the ridges of concern between his brows have smoothed and the devilish glint is back. He is smiling and her heart lifts in answer.

She wonders what it is that causes them - both of them - to shoulder fear alone. Simple loss, a wounded heart, their heavy armor against more hurts?

She wonders if, one day, he will trust her with his weaknesses.

She wonders if, one day, she will trust him with her own.

* * *

_vii. The Silence_

Poison cake.

Poison cake.

Poison _cake_.

A man who ate at her table was a fool to raise the stakes in such a way. As if her proficiency in both botany and cooking wouldn’t make her a formidable foe.

A belated thought, unfortunately.

He spends three days allowing the rest of the family to tuck in for several minutes before he ventures to eat his meals, eyeing her suspiciously, certain he might drop dead.

The texture of the potatoes - were they smoother than usual? Had she swirled in ipecac syrup?

Her malevolent grin does absolutely nothing to ease his nerves.

* * *

_viii. The Ties of the Past_

She worries about him. The past devils him, omnipresent, taking pieces even as she watches.

He’s a boy again, grieving his mother, betrayed and abandoned by his father.

A boy who still finds magic in floating gold, invites her to take in the constellation of the ceiling, even as he breathes animosity at his father.

She reminds herself she doesn’t know either man, not really. That there are parts of their history she’ll never understand.

His eyes are sad and she almost reaches for him, but instead clutches her housecoat tighter around her. The ceiling glitters and winks above them.

* * *

_ix. The Sky is Empty_

She is unusually nervous heading to the confessional. Years of petty sins - jealousy, gossip, a bit of gluttony - makes her newest trespasses seem more grave in comparison.

In a less forgiving light, she might conclude that she has been a bit more flexible with the commandments since Lucien’s return, his easy-going nature both infuriating and instigating.

A terrible influence.

However it has been decades since she last felt the need to confess to impure thoughts, to coveting something that wasn’t hers.

She enters the wood paneled confessional knowing she will sin again and one day, she won’t ask for forgiveness.

* * *

_x. An Invincible Summer_

Her life is filled with men who leave. Men she drives away with careless words.

Jack will never return to her, the same way Christopher never did. Not lost in the wilds of war, but succumbed to a battle just the same.

And then there’s Lucien, the one who reappeared, battle-worn and weary. He offers her shelter when she doesn’t know she needs it, and she feels the weight of his words physically.

Something cracks within her, escaping the tight confines of her guarded heart. It catches an updrift and floats, glittering like flakes of gold.

It’s something like hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fully intend to finish all 5 series. They may not be presented on tumblr as a multimedia project - and if they are, they likely won't be spread over the course of a day. But I'm having too much fun with this and I can't wait to see it through. Thank you to everyone who has been so supportive!


	3. Series 3

**i. King of the Lake**

“Well somehow I can’t imagine you’d ever be treated like that, Jean.”

She swallows a grimace, wondering if he’s missed the irony completely.  Just how many women has Lucien left behind? How often has he raced halfway across the world, with only a letter for comfort?

There is nothing but pity in her for Monica Goodman. It’s a terrible thing to love and not be loved in return. To be the sole focus of Lucien Blake’s attention and suddenly...not. To be beholden to his mercurial moods.

Heaven help the woman who falls in love with him.

_Heaven help her_. 

* * *

 

**ii. My Brother’s Keeper**

Her hard heart, once cracked, spills over with long held pain. Words she never intended to say to anyone have been spoken.

He is gentle with her, so terribly gentle, as though she’ll shatter.

She isn’t ready, not yet, but when she is she hopes he will hold on. She hopes that he will release his grip on his demons and take her hand. She’ll need him to be steady, something she knows he isn’t very good at. She’ll need him to do _something_ , _anything_ , to let her know...

She’ll need him.

She’ll _need_ him.

The very thought terrifies her.

* * *

**iii. This Time and This Place**

The tremor in Lucien’s voice is her undoing.

She knows too well the ache of a lost child, the result of not being enough to keep him safe. She knows too well that there’s nothing she can say, no platitude to utter, that will help him. She can only offer the strength of her touch, leaning into him to absorb some of his pain.

She longs to comfort him, to smooth away his worries with a touch to his brow, to offer him tea and a biscuit. She presses her hands to his shoulder and hopes that will be enough.

* * *

 

**iv. By The Southern Cross**

“I’ve never been disappointed in you, not for a moment.”

She sees in Mattie the daughter she was never blessed to have; a willful spirit and gentle kindness, bubbling with potential. And yet Mattie is not her child, is probably far to well-rounded to have survived the muddle she made of raising her own sons. She cannot help but measure her boys against the self-assured woman in front of her and knows exactly how she failed them.

She will say to Mattie the honest things she never could say to her own sons.

And hope they will make a difference.

* * *

**v. A Night to Remember**

Adrenaline still courses through Jean’s system, a dump of nerves from her performance, to the arrival of Christopher, to the death of Jacqueline Maddern. She thrums with the confidence that comes with working with Lucien, excitement at being useful.

She doesn’t heed Charlie’s warning nod as she gives Monroe advice. It’s not until later that she realizes the picture she made, righteously proclaiming her faith in Lucien.

Belatedly, she recognizes that she is not, in fact, bulletproof as Monroe’s words find their mark. And though her chin juts and her shoulders are set, she flees the room just the same.

* * *

 

**vi. Women and Children**

Amelia Jean Beazley

She hears Lucien at the door and jumps to greet him, her news causing her skin to tingle.

A granddaughter! They have -- well, she has - a granddaughter! She knows Lucien will rejoice as if it were his news as well, and she longs to share with him.

She meets him at the door with a mild rebuke for his absence, replaces the hat on his head and straightens his lapels. He grumbles at her, congratulates her, and turns to go. It’s only when he’s headed back to the car that she swallows back the disappointment.

She’s alone.

* * *

**vii. Room Without A View**

She will always have a job here.

The words, spoken in kindness, ache against her thudding heart. A _job_ does not follow blindly, defend unthinking. A _job_ does not stay up late in worry. A _job_ does not listen without judgement, longing to offer comfort.

For Jean, the day has long passed that her time in the Blake household was a simple _job_. And she has revealed too much, given too much, to ever let it be a simple job ever again.

_Tell me to stay_ , she wants to yell. _Tell me I’m needed._

Tell me I’m wanted. _Tell me_.

* * *

**viii. Darkness Visible**

Her breath catches, knots itself in her chest and she knows she’s gaping.

He’s there.

He stands before her, bare-headed and breathless. And nervous

He’s there.

She makes room for him on the seat. To match the room she long ago made in her heart.

He starts to speak but she can’t, not then.

He’s there.

His fingers gripping hers, his warm breath in her hair, his shoulder solid beneath her head.

_He’s there and she’s leaving and he came after her._

The future is a jumble and she steadies herself, listening to his heart race.

She holds his hand.

(3/5)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally a multimedia presentation with caps for each ep - hopefully this works without them.


End file.
